


(Learning To Be) Something More Than Free

by aleberg9



Series: Royal Wolves [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Corvo Bianco (The Witcher), Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, M/M, Relationships at work, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24077137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleberg9/pseuds/aleberg9
Summary: Geralt tries to navigate his relationship with Emhyr, his place in the imperial palace and his role as a Witcher in a world that is rapidly changing.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Royal Wolves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1737067
Comments: 38
Kudos: 234





	1. Coming Home

Geralt crested the hill and came to a stop.

Roach, who was a feisty young Nilfgaardian mare this time around, redder then he normally picked them and with an attitude to match, pranced a bit in annoyance before settling. Geralt usually avoided showy horses because they could be even more trouble then the stubborn ones, but this one had been a gift from Emhyr and he couldn’t deny that she was swift and graceful and agile enough that riding her felt more like flying and she had that particular glint in her eye that always told a good Roach apart. That glint that said she would bite you if you looked at her wrong.

He had been riding at a sedate pace for the last several days. As he neared the Nilfgaardian capital the weather had turned hot and balmy, and since there was nothing urgent on the horizon he had seen no need to rush.

Also, there may have also been the little detail of nerves.

It didn’t matter how many times he did it, every time he approached the City of the Golden Towers, he was overcome by such a complicated wave of emotions that he was forced to stop until he could get them under control again.

Among them was shock, of course. And disbelief. A large part of him could still not belief that he was returning to the imperial palace which he more or less called home these days and which also happened to house his daughter and his lover who also happened to be the Emperor of Nilfgaard.

Geralt would sit and gaze at the distant city and wonder at just how far his life had come from anything which he had ever imagined.

And underneath that, there was fear. Though even under extreme torture he never would have admitted that.

A fear that he wasn’t as welcomed has he had thought. That at some point he would wake up and realize what a fool he had been to ever think that a Witcher could live in the imperial palace.

And underneath that, discomfort.

He would never breath a word to Emhyr, or Ciri for that matter, but sometimes palace life could wear him down.

He was used to that hatred and bigotry he met while on the Path, and could usually content himself with the knowledge that after the monster hunt was done he could simply ride away.

At the palace, that was not an option.

He had made a promise to Ciri, and then to Emhyr. And even if he hadn’t, he had come to enjoy the benefits of living at the palace. The knowledge that he could affect real, lasting change simply by giving advice. That Emhyr listened to him, and took his help seriously, and always took whatever little details or insights which Geralt could provide and turned them into beautiful and dazzling schemes that saw roads built and schools constructed and food and medicine dispersed where before there had only been swamps and ruin and starvation.

Geralt liked that, so it was worth it to stay. But that didn’t stop the whispers that no one thought he could hear or the (still) pervasive scent of fear or the looks of contempt from cutting him to the bone on bad days.

Those were usually the days when he would slip out into the city and find something to kill or something to do with his hands and only come back when he felt more like a person.

On really bad days he would find Emhyr and drag him off to a dark corner and have him fuck him senseless.

On really, really bad days he saddled Roach and rode as far and for as long as he needed to until his muscles ached from fighting and his hands had forgotten what it felt like to hold anything other than a sword.

But always, always, he returned. Because it was worth it.

With a sigh, Geralt shakes his head at his own ridiculousness and nudges Roach back into motion.

The hills here are steep and numerous and Geralt takes his time picking the best path between them. He could take the road, which runs straight and level and even, but this close to the golden city it will also be full of traffic going both ways, and he would rather have a few more moments of peace.

Eventually however, he is forced to rejoin the thoroughfare.

Thankfully, the guards at the gate let him through without any fuss, but as he gets closer and closer to the palace, and the more opulent neighborhoods around it, he starts to draw attention.

Unfortunately, this had been happening more and more of late. When he complained to Emhyr and Ciri, they both told him to suck it up as both of them had it far worse, but that didn’t stop Geralt from wishing that he could conjure a spell of invisibility every time he was forced to travel so visibly through the city.

Word had spread that the Emperor had taken a consort, and that he was white haired and cat eyed and so as he neared the palace the people in the street made way for him with increasingly deep bows and murmurs of Lord Geralt and Master Witcher and Consort and whatever other title they thought might fit.

By the time he actually made it to the palace gate, he was wishing fervently that he had waited until night fall to return.

All the genuflecting was bad enough, but underneath it all Geralt could still smell the sour scent of fear and superstition that not even the ruthless civilization of Nilfgaard was able to wipe out.

But once he was in the palace proper the atmosphere changed.

The staff at this point were more or less accustomed to him, and they were professional to boot.

They didn’t make a fuss when he insisted on tending to Roach himself and didn’t bother him with a million offers for a bath or refreshments or any of the other nonsense that most nobles and dignitaries were met with.

An aid wondering by was kind enough to inform him that both Ciri and Emhyr were in the family wing,using the late afternoon hour to work in their private offices which for anyone else would have meant a few hours to relax and for them just meant a few less disruptions while they slaved away.

As he made his way up, a fond smile split Geralt’s face. It was such a silly thing, to know that at least half of Emhyr’s ruthlessness was actually just his shear inability to stop working or that Ciri took to everything she did with a kind of stubborn zeal that bordered on obsessive. But they were little insights into their personalities that Geralt hoarded closely.

Once in the hallway that connected all of the royal families suites, the ingrained scent of his lover and his daughter, the invisible markers left by their countless comings and goings that showed this space to be undeniably theirs, made all of Geralt’s earlier doubts vanish in face of his sudden desire to see them.

He knocked on Ciri’s door first, and was rewarded by a delighted shriek and a flying hug that would have sent anyone else to the ground. But because he was who he was he caught her easily and spun her around. She laughed delightedly and for that moment was just a daughter happy to see her father returned and not an empress in the making.

The scent of happiness was thick in the air, and under that Geralt could tell that though Ciri was perhaps a little tired, she was healthy and well fed.

They moved to Ciri’s balcony, which in the late summer heat was thankfully mostly in the shade, and she spent a good hour barraging him with questions about where he had been and what he had done. He answered what he had to before diverting the conversation towards Ciri.

It turned out that in the two months that he had been away, the palace had been fairly quiet, which meant that there was only one plot per week and that no one had resorted to assassination. The public school in Cintra, Ciri’s latest project, was going well and soon she would be leaving to personally oversee the final stages of preparation herself.

But that wasn’t at least for three months and so they had plenty of time to catch up. Geralt left when she started eyeing her desk again and promised that tomorrow they would spend at least a few hours in the sparring ring together. Ciri smiled and waved him out the door.

Next was Emhyr.

A small smile curved his lips as he turned not towards the door leading into Emhyr’s private office, but to the door of what was still technically his own rooms.

Though he spent almost every night that he was at the palace in Emhyr’s room, he still kept his old suite. Mostly because they had never formally discussed Geralt moving into Emhyr’s rooms and also because it was nice, to have his own space that wasn’t beholden to the strict standards that even the Emperor’s private chambers were held to.

He made his way swiftly to his own balcony, swung himself over the railing, and then preceded to inch his way across, holding on with just his fingers to the thin ridge that was the only protrusion on the otherwise smooth wall.

Emhyr hated when he did this, mostly because he still had no idea how Geralt did it, but that was exactly why he loved doing it.

Only a Witcher would have the strength and discipline necessary to carry themselves across such a distance only by their fingertips, so Geralt really wasn’t too worried about someone else figuring out this one little weak spot in Emhyr’s defenses.

Once he made it to the appropriate balcony, he pushed with his feet, propelling himself sidewise to catch at the edge of the balcony with this hands before gathering momentum to swing his body over the railing, landing silently, on all fours.

As he had predicted, the living room was empty.

Walking with the absolute silence of a professional Witcher, Geralt slipped through the open balcony doors, through the the living room and then, with a burst of movement too fast to be human, through the door to the office and right behind Emhyr’s chair.

Emhyr let out a satisfying shriek and Geralt couldn’t resist bending down and scooping him out of his chair.

There was a lot of cursing and demands to be “Let down this instant!” But Geralt didn’t pay it any mind. Instead he brought Emhyr’s feet to rest on the floor so that they were standing pressed together with Geralt’s arm around his waist and his head buried in Emhyr’s shoulder. He took one deep breath of Emhyr’s scent, pine soap, parchment, and the black tea he loved to drink, and felt every last drop of tension fade.

Finally Emhyr gave up with his swearing and let his own arms come up to return the embrace. He knew well by now how much such simple physical contact meant to Geralt,and had gotten better about letting Geralt just be for a few moments before he started pestering him with questions.

Geralt made a pleased noise and nipped gently at Emhyr’s throat. Now that he was back, he wanted nothing more than to take Emhyr to bed and not let him out for at least a few hours.

Talking could wait.

But Emhyr only laughed and pushed Geralt away to arms length. He was smiling, but Geralt knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

“Witcher, while I am pleased to see you, perhaps you might indulge me and take a bath before accosting me further? I believe I can smell at least a week’s worth of travel on you, and I haven’t but the nose of an ordinary human.”

Geralt grumbled.

“You would think Witchers were allergic to water, the way you complain about bathing sometimes. I know you like to be clean when you can Geralt, is it really too much to ask for you to consider some hygiene before jumping to sex?” Emhyr’s tone was purposefully light, so that Geralt would know he was mostly teasing. His somewhat sporadic bathing habits were sometimes a point of contention between them.

It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t like bathing, he did in fact prefer it, but it was just that he didn’t always see the point of washing when he knew he was going to get dirty again not long after. And a long life on the road where bathing was difficult had taught him to ignore the discomfort of carrying a few days worth of dust.

And he really had missed Emhyr.

“Would think you weren’t even happy to see me. Not even one kiss?” Geralt tried one more time.

It wasn’t that he was desperate or anything.

It was just that Geralt liked sex a lot. In fact, he was reasonably sure that most Witchers did. It wasn’t something which they talked about exactly but one of the many things which their mutations did was ramp up a lot of their hormones. It was hard to tell, because there were no human children at Kaer Morhen after the age of twelve, but judging by the amount of fumbling sexual exploration that went on between the boys in between pouts of training it was safe to assume that the Trail of the Grasses left them…well, energized in more ways then one.

The problem of course, was that it was hard enough finding people willing to take a Witcher into their homes, much less their beds. Even at brothels, it was hard to find anyone who didn’t reek of fear, which was just about the biggest turn off you could imagine.

Geralt liked sex, but didn’t get it very often and when he did was often stuck bedding some adventurous young women who would non the less flee if he made so much as a wrong gesture so he was usually fairly preoccupied with not doing that the whole time.

To have a partner who not only never smelt even remotely of fear, but also whom he trusted and was interested in something more than just a dangerous roll in the hay with a Witcher was rather amazing. The fact that Emhyr often claimed to love Geralt and that Geralt was beginning to believe him only added to that.

So he liked sex and he wanted very desperately not to have to think for the next few moments. And he had dearly missed Emhyr.

They didn’t have to do anything complicated. Just a quick hand job would do the trick and then he would be on his merry way to the baths.

Though, on second thought. “Or, you could come with me. We can do a lot more than kissing in the bath.” Geralt offered, trying to pitch his voice as low and as inviting as he could.

He was gratified when he saw Emhyr’s eyes darken and heard his breathing hitch.

But Emhyr had not become Emperor of North and South for nothing. Geralt could practically see the man pull himself together and regain control. Pity. He had really hoped that that might go somewhere.

“As tempting as your offer is, dear Witcher, I am afraid that some things will not wait, even for you. I have reports that must be signed and orders to send out.” Emhyr sighed at Geralt’s beaten look and leant forward to press a chaste kiss against his lips. “But later. I will clear my evening and I promise you, you shall not want for attention then.”

It was Geralt’s turn to feel his breath catch and his eyes darken. He knew what it was like to hold the personal attention of the Emperor for an evening. “That’s a promise then.” He said, his voice coming out a little husky.

Because he wanted to and because he could, he stole one more kiss, but then he turned and headed to the baths.

Though each royal suit was equipped with its own private bathing chamber, there were also hot springs located under the palace, and since he wasn’t going to be getting any special kind of company, might as well take advantage of the sprawling pools and mineral rich water.

He sighed when he sunk into the hot water. The hot spring was blissfully empty and he felt safe enough to close his eyes.

It had been a hard two months.

He had left with the intention of making a quick circuit north into Sodden before returning along the coast. He would take contracts as he liked and otherwise make note of certain things which he thought Emhyr or Ciri might find useful.

Whenever he left like that he was never under obligation to fulfill any sort of imperial duty, an allowance which he was grateful that Emhyr had understood. But he also felt inclined to make himself useful where he could.

Even Emhyr’s spies had limits, and he was beginning to understand that he often saw things which others missed, and not just because he was a Witcher.

But his plan had been somewhat derailed by a slew of bad luck that led to one awful hunt after another and though none of them could strictly be classified as failures they all weighed on him poorly and added up to a generally miserable time.

Life on the Path wasn’t always that bad, but when it was Geralt hated to talk about it. Words would get stuck in his throat when he thought about all the bullshit that made up most people’s existence. All the petty hatred and bigotry which led to senseless violence.

To add insult to injury, Geralt had found himself complaining about the quality of almost everything while on the road. Since settling into life at the palace, he had noticed more and more that when he went out he was unable to put up with things which before he hardly would have even noticed.

The beds were always too itchy and smelled bad. The food was always either over salted or overcooked and the beer tasted like piss. Even with coin to spend on the fanciest inn that would take him, he found himself annoyed at every little imperfection.

It got so bad that he started avoiding inns all together, but then he only found himself complaining that the ground was too hard or the weather too wet.

In other words, he was getting soft, and he hated it.

Annoyed at his own spiraling thoughts, Geralt let himself sink down until his head was submerged.

Under the water, the world was muffled and almost peaceful. He sometimes wondered if this was what life was like for ordinary humans, who never had to worry about all the scents and noise and general clutter that he was never fully able to tune out.

As a Witcher, he could hold his breath for a considerable amount of time, and he let himself stay under until his lungs were aching for breath. HIs hair, longer than he had ever let it grow before, swirled around him in the water and obscured his vision in a cloud of white.

He stayed until everything but the need to breath was silenced and then he let himself surface.

Feeling relatively refreshed, Geralt got out and went to hunt down some food.

And then he would hunt Emhyr down and regardless if he was finished with his work or not he was dragging him into bed and wasn’t going to let him leave until he had been thoroughly ravaged.


	2. Home Is Where The Politics Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at the palace can be busy

As usual, Geralt slept poorly, but that was ok.

He woke from his latest attempt to sleep with a warm Emperor curled in his arms, on sheets that were clean and cool and soft and smelled like nothing except them.

Though it was not quite dawn, it was more then enough light for Geralt to see.

Geralt had heard that some people looked younger in their sleep. This was not the case with Emhyr, who even at rest looked like he was planning at least five different plots. But he did, perhaps, look less worried. And more like a man and less like an emperor.

Objectively speaking, Emhyr was not a classically beautiful man. He was far from ugly, and his face had a certain regal cast to it that made it both imposing and unforgettable, but age had cast his angles into sharp relief and had added lines and shadows were before there had been none.

Most humans, Geralt supposed, would find these off putting. But in all honesty, Geralt had never truly understood the human concept of age and beauty.

Witcher’s aged so differently than humans, that it was hard for any of them to truly gauge the age of humans beyond the rough estimates of children, young adult, middle age, and old.

Technically speaking, Geralt was a little over one hundred, but had been described has looking roughly thirty-five by those he trusted. (Dandelion said the hair made him look older but that once people got a closer look at his face they often found it confusing that he had so few wrinkles, something which apparently added to his ‘mystique’ but which Geralt thought was a nice way of saying freak.)

When he first met Emhyr, he had been young and lovestruck and otherwise a perfectly unremarkable knight from a small kingdom and Geralt had paid very little attention to his looks. When he met him again and found that Duny and become Emhyr var Emreis, The White Flame Dancing on the Burrows of his Enemies, he had seen a stern, ruthless conquer who was cunning enough and desperate enough to enlist a Witcher to find his daughter.

Now he saw a face that was as complex as the man who wore it. Thunderous when he was angry and soft when he thought no one was looking.

Geralt quite liked that face. And the body that went with it.

He remembered some of the things which that body had done to his last night and wondered if he could get an encore performance before Emhyr had to attend to his morning duties.

He smirked softly to himself. Well, best get started then.

He started by pressing feather light kisses to Emhyr’s shoulder, and only moved on when he felt him start to stir.

Emhyr was always fastidious about wearing a night robe to sleep, even after they had marathon sex, but the fabric was feather light and almost sheer in the summer heat so Geralt had no problem pushing it aside as he pressed a path of gentle nips and kisses down Emhyr’s chest.

A low groan rewarded his efforts, and one of Emhyr’s hands came to rest on his head.

“Geralt…? Why are you awake?” Emhyr mumbled, which was far too much talking for Geralt’s tastes, so he pressed up into Emhyr’s grip until he instinctively grabbed his hair and then he licked a stripe over Emhyr’s nipple and was pleased when he felt an answering tug on his hair.

Once that was settled it didn’t take much more prodding to have Emhyr hard and panting and eager. Geralt was in a similar state so it didn’t take much to get him to lean down and take Emhyr’s cock into his mouth.

He lost himself in the pleasing rhythm and the breathy moans coming from above him and it didn’t take long for either of them to tumble over the edge.

Afterwards, Emhyr gave him an exasperated look. “Was it really necessary to wake me up before dawn?” He griped.

Geralt bumped him with his head. “Most men would be happy to wake up to what you just did anytime.” He grumbled.

“Hmm, it was more than pleasant, I assure you. But that doesn’t stop the fact that I have much to do and am no longer at an age where I can easily miss out on sleep.”

“Get a different job then.” Geralt said without thinking, and then felt bad when Emhyr only frowned and turned to get out of bed. Of course he couldn’t go even one day without putting his foot in his mouth.

Since the mood for the morning had been somewhat ruined, he got up and met Ciri for breakfast, only to be chased away almost immediately because Ciri had Very Important Meetings to attend and Witchers were not welcomed.

So feeling somewhat put out, Geralt wondered into the training yard and spent a few hours beating the shit out of a dummy. But that often left him more frustrated to begin with so eventually he stopped.

He really did need to see about putting a real training course in here somewhere. Something like what they had in Kaer Morhen, that might prove a little bit of a challenge even for him.

After a lunch where he failed to meet up with Emhyr because he too was stuck in Very Important Meetings, Geralt wondered into the water gardens and chatted with Lily, the resident vodyanoy, for a little bit. But one could only hold a conversation about the merits of water for so long so then he wandered off and was once more at a loss.

He wandered down to the stables to check on Roach but she was out in the gallops and probably glad to have a break from him.

Annoyed, he finally returned to his own rooms and spent some time fiddling with his brewing equipment. He didn’t really need anything at the moment, and his armor and swords had all been meticulously cleaned last night because he couldn't’ go to sleep without doing that and nothing was in need of more extensive repairs.

Idly, he wondered if he needed to find a hobby.

It was as he was contemplating the various merits of taking up knitting versus distilling beer with hallucinogenic mushrooms that Emhyr came and found him.

“Keeping busy? I thought you had enough potions to last you, I quote ‘a very long lifetime’.” Emhyr said in greeting as he came in. He didn’t knock, because such a thing was beneath him, but Geralt could hear him coming from all the way down the hall and so wasn’t surprised.

Geralt grunted in response.

Emhyr sighed and looked at him with his overly perceptive eyes. “I had hoped you might take the day to rest, though I see now that was foolish of me. I am sorry to have left you at alone all day, I should have considered how restless you are after a hunt.”

Geralt hated when he did that, just looked at him and then spouted a bunch of stuff like he could see into his head or something. It made him feel oddly more vulnerable then anytime that Yennefer had actually read his thoughts because it came not from magic but from someone who was truly attentive to him and what he liked and disliked and he had no experience with that and so didn’t know how to respond.

He shrugged and made a vague gesture towards his alchemy table.

It was a mess, because he never really had his own space outside of the room he would winter in at Kaer Morhen, which was never really his but simply whatever room was available when he showed up. He was used to living out of his saddle bags and the idea of having space where he could spread out and not have to worry about people stealing his stuff or having to leave on short notice left him feeling equally smug that he had a room that belonged to him and nervous because what was he supposed to do with a room that belonged to him?

But one of the best things about Emhyr was that he never seemed to require words when Geralt couldn’t find them and so he made no further comment and simply came to stand next to him, so that Geralt could feel his heat and maybe lean into his side a little.

“I think, perhaps, a family dinner tonight is in order. There has been enough politicking for today.”

Geralt smiled and leaned further into Emhyr. Dinner with just Ciri and Emhyr would be lovely. “And those dumplings, with the sweet sauce.” He replied.

“Yes. How could I forget?” Emhyr, who did not like the dumplings, grumbled good naturedly. “And perhaps, you could finally share some of your travels with us?” Emhyr added.

Toward his credit, he was asking not demanding. And Geralt also knew that besides his personal interest in what Geralt had gotten up to he was also keen to hear any news about his lands that wasn’t filtered through the double speak of local lords desperate to appear better than they were.

“Fine. But I want a glass of wine, come on.”

Geralt led the way to Emhyr’s chambers, and was gratified when he followed without complaint. It was rather intoxicating to have the Emperor follow you for a change, even if that Emperor happened to share your bed most nights.

He started with a somewhat dry report of villages and roads and fields but quickly found himself getting more emotional.

The little girl who he was too late to save, and had to bury her body in parts because she had been so mangled.

The village burned and plundered by bandits, even though the war as over and prosperity was returning to the region.

The family of elves, stoned out of a village where they only wanted to stay a night, because despite Emhyr’s laws prohibiting racial discrimination, hatred still festered.

All of these things and worse had been Geralt’s life as long as he had been on the Path. He had known death in all its particular forms and variations, and had grown accustomed to hardening his heart and doing what he could. Contenting himself with knowing that with every monster killed, some people would live.

At least, until the next monster. Or the next bandit attack or the next war or the next time their neighbors decided to be dicks and then the whole thing would start all over again.

“Its just….it never fucking changes, is the thing. You save someone from a drowner and the next day they die falling down the stairs. Whats the fucking point?” Growling, Geralt tipped his chair back on its hind legs and swallowed the rest of his wine. For once it tasted bitter in his mouth, though it was one of his favorite vintages.

They had been sitting on the balcony, waiting for Ciri to arrive to eat. The summer was at its height, and the heat even in the evening was stifling. The air thick with moisture and the humming of insects. Geralt had shed his gambeson in the living room and was in a thin linen shirt and loose trousers, his swords resting in easy reach. Emhyr was insane and so was still wearing his full robes of state, even though no one but Geralt could see him and the robes were made from thick brocade and weighed a ton.

“You cannot control the fate of every person that crosses your path. People die every day and many of them from stupid causes, I am sure. Many of them even preventable. You know this, but you also know what it means to those individuals who get to live another day, or get to see their loved ones live, thanks to your swords.” Emhyr offered diplomatically. He had drunken a lot less wine than Geralt, but even so his face was slightly flushed, and his accompanying gesture was somewhat less than perfectly precise.

“So what, just give up?” Geralt demanded. “Just let people die because it’s inevitable?”

“You know that is not what I meant.” Emhyr said, and despite the overwhelming scent of magnolia and jasmine wafting up from the garden below, Geralt could smell that Emhyr was sincere and earnestly concerned. Emhyr might have spent a life time learning how to hide his thoughts from a palace full of conniving nobles, but he had never had to learn to hide his scent. “You must see your actions in context. On the Path, you are only capable of stopping monsters one at a time, so considering the innumerable lives you have saved, I think that you rather deserve a commendation.”

Geralt frowned. “Right. One at a time. Like clearing the beach of sand.”

Emhyr looked at him reproachfully. Obviously, Geralt was not responding how he had hoped.

Luckily, they were saved from continuing this conversation by the appearance of Ciri, who quickly drew them to the dining table and into a pleasant discussion of the latest frivolous argument between the noble Ladies var Ellis and var Vanderburg, the latest update in the ongoing romance between the head cook and the stable master, and whether or nor Emhyr should agree to the trade corporations proposal for a new import tax in order to win their support for the Veterans Resettlement Bill which needed to be approved this coming session.

By the time they retired to bed, Geralt had found himself successfully distracted, and didn’t bring up the issue again.

The next several weeks past in a blur of activity.

Emhyr did concede to the trade corporations, because resettling veterans was a priority that needed to be resolved. But then it turned out that some of the Oferi ships which had been impacted by the new tax had actually been bringing in illegal drugs which led to a flurry of investigation which Geralt actually got to lead and ended with the arrests of five different crime gangs and at least a dozen magistrates who had been accepting bribes.

Then there was a scandal as a baron was found bedding a duchess, whose husband was very much alive and well, and Emhyr and Ciri had to use every trick up their sleeves to avoid a blood feud from developing.

Finally, Geralt literally stumbled over a plot to undermine Emhyr when he was returning from a hunt one evening and by the time that was sorted out almost a month had passed since he had returned home and he had barely noticed.


	3. Ballroom Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is forced to attend a ball

That particular night, Geralt was suffering through perhaps the very worst aspect of being the Emperors consort.

As much as he had resisted the title at first, he had come to appreciate it as it gave him the ability to not only order around basically everyone accept Emhyr, which he did anyways, but it also meant that no one could legitimately challenge his position in court or question him over any of his behaviors.

There were, of course, downsides.

Such as tonight, where despite his best efforts, he had not been able to weasel out of attending this ball.

He hated balls.

The ballroom was large enough to fit a small army inside, and as it was the few hundred lords and ladies were somewhat dwarfed by the massive marble pillars holding up the vaulted ceiling.

Of course, that was somewhat on purpose.

The floor, made out of several different expensive kinds of marble, had the bones of at least another hundred or so nobles worked into the pattern. The grisly remains of those who supported the Usurper against Emhyr’s father.

The skulls of course, were tastefully worked into the wall decorations.

Everything else was either plated in gold, crusted in gems or otherwise so lavishly decorated that there could be no doubt as to who this chamber belonged to.

The ballroom was meant to be intimating, in every aspect.

In response, the invitees showed up in their most elaborate clothes. The usual somber tones of black and brown were thrown out in favor of rich burgundies and deep blues. Every other person was wearing enough jewels to cover the costs of a small village and the mingling scents of perfume, nepotism, and greed was enough to give Geralt a massive headache.

He hated balls!

In his opinion, they were worse than the most stuffy of court sessions, because at least then things were actually getting done. This was purely for the appearance of power. A chance for the high and the mighty to show off their wealth and connections as they circled each other like hungry dogs disguised in miles of silk and too much perfume.

Geralt had even considered overdosing on potions, just so he would have a real excuse not to attend.

But alas, one look from Ciri and here he was.

Recently, the tailor had been dressing him in white, and he wasn’t sure yet if he was going to have to strangle the mad for it or not.

It made him stand out like a sore thumb. Next to the somber black of Emhyr and Ciri, he practically sparkled.

At least the cut of the clothes, a knee length tunic with a high neck and belted at the waist with a fine golden chain and soft cotton trousers, allowed for movement and weren’t as restricting as a doublet and hose.

And though he hadn’t been allowed his swords he had a small assortment of daggers both visible and hidden carried on his person.

None of which were doing him any good right now as he sadly couldn’t stab his conversation partner into silence.

He wondered if he would get into trouble if he just threatened to stab, and didn’t actually go through with it.

He had been cornered almost immediately following the obligatory opening dance with Emhyr by the very illustrious and pompous Duchess Maria Lucia var Valencina, whose wrinkles hung off her bony frame like fleshy sheets, hid ineffectively under a thick coating of paint, perfume and massive swaths of fabric.

To call her a conversation partner was perhaps dishonest. An interrogator would have been a more accurate moniker, Geralt mused.

Currently he was being pressed for his opinions on this years silk patterns and whether or not his mutated eyes could see color or if he was color blind like a dog.

The first he could only assume was some veiled attempt to get him to commit some social faux pas or another and by extension embarrass Emhyr and the second was just straight up insulting.

Because his patience was already fraying, Geralt turned to the Duchess and replied, “Yes, I agree that this years silk patterns are dull. But I must congratulate you on your outfit, monochrome gray looks so..unique…with your complexion. It really shows off your freckles in a good light. Oh, I’m sorry, are those age spots? It’s so hard to tell with these mutated eyes.” Geralt had to hold back a grin at her shocked face. See, Emhyr’s double speak was rubbing off on him. “Now, I must excuse myself, my unquestioned fashion expertise are required elsewhere.”

Geralt practically bounced as he walked away. It was perhaps childish of him to take such pleasure in poking fun at the rich and powerful, but he had learned that on nights like this he had to take his pleasures where he could.

Of course, it was too much to hope that Emhyr had missed the scene, and he was currently watching Geralt from across the room with a severe frown. Ciri, at least, looked like she was holding back a laugh.

Though she was also currently engaged in conversation with Lord Morvran Voorhis, who for all intents and purposes was to be her betrothed.

As Geralt focused on their conversation, he could easily make out their words above the general din of the ballroom.

“…I don’t mean to say you are wrong, it’s more a problem of…of looking through the wrong window.” Ciri was saying, and gesticulating wildly enough to threaten the goblet of wine she held in one hand. “You can’t really understand how to solve a problem if you don’t see all of it.”

Morvran, to his credit, replied with equal gusto. It seemed that speaking with the crown princess while in earshot of the Emperor was not enough to intimidate him. “All due respect, Your Highness, but what you are suggesting is simply folly. It would overly complicate an issue that does not need complication. The problem is manageable and the solution is set. I do not see your complaint.” His usually haughty tone, Geralt was pleased to note, was somewhat diminished in the face of his obvious passion for whatever it was the two were discussing.

“My complaint is that your solution isn’t working. Or it’s only working short term. A true solution to poverty would look at the root causes, and seek to solve those. Handing out funds to poorhouses is all well and good, but it’s not actually helping anyone change their circumstances. Education is the only way that we can give people the tools they need to help themselves.” Ciri was dressed regally in a gown of sable black that seemed to draw in the light, and the eye of everyone in the room, towards her. The rich fabric and extensive skirts was elegantly covered in golden detailing and her hair was artfully piled up and held together with a golden hairnet glistening with rubies. Every inch of her was a true princess. Except for her eyes, which blazed with the same fiery passion as when she handled a sword.

Morvran sighed in exasperation. The high spots of color on his cheeks and his irritated hand twitch betrayed his usual composure. “Education on such a scale is simply not practical!”

Geralt only kept half an ear to their ongoing debate as he came to stand in front of Emhyr.

It was considered a sign of rudeness to sit at a ball in Nilfgaard, so there were no chairs anywhere in the great hall. The Emperor was of course beholden to these rules as well, but at least he had the privilege of standing on a raised platform where only those whom he welcomed were allowed to stand. This gave him the benefit of space and a comfortable rug to stand on, rather than the cold marble and bone floor of the ballroom.

As a barest concession to propriety, Geralt managed a small bow with his head, but he couldn’t resist twitching an eyebrow as he approached. Looking at Emhyr’s face, one would assume he was currently engaging in battle, not enjoying a ball and the antics of his daughter and her soon-to-be betrothed.

“Greetings, oh high and mighty Majesty White Flame Sir.” Geralt greeted with a smile. It was a surprisingly uplifting thought to know that Emhyr hated these events almost as much as he did.

Even as he could not ignore the thousands of eyes watching every one of his moves, and the incessant prickling up his back that told him that he was exposed in a room full of unknown threats, he could find it in himself to smile.

Emhyr only sighed with the air of someone who was long suffering. “Geralt, I must remind you again that these formalities are no laughing matter. Even you must observe them here, incase the wrong ear overhears and leaps to unfortunate conclusions.”

Geralt had been keeping his voice very low, and knew for a fact that the only other people standing in hearing distance were Emhyr’s guards and the couple who were too busy discussing education to pay any attention. He wasn’t an idiot.

But he also knew how many threats Emhyr faced on a daily basis, and that every single one of his words and expressions were constantly being analyzed for signs of weakness.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“Hm. Like you couldn’t resist insulting the Duchess. I will be sure to make you deal with any unpleasantness she brings up in court because of that.” Emhyr threatened.

“Hah, like that was the worst thing she’ll hear tonight. I’m an amateur compared to what these vipers can spit out. You should be grateful I’m not stabbing anyone.”

“Yet.” Emhyr said darkly, and Geralt could only gape at him in offense. He wasn’t that bad.

Finally Ciri seemed to notice his presence and roped him into her discussion so that he could sing her praises to Morvran and convince him of her public school project.

The project was really Ciri’s baby, and he knew only what he had picked up from her impassioned ramblings which he was often subjected to, but he thought he did a pretty could job of supporting her.

Certainly by the end Morvran was looking much less convinced of himself.

Emhyr of course was soon pulled away by some noble or another and then Geralt was forced into a dance with a young Marchioness. Who wasn’t too bad as these things went as she was both quiet and only lightly perfumed, but who was so nervous that she kept tripping over his feet and by the end of it Geralt was gritting his teeth in frustration.

Finally he was able to escape to a distant corner, where he was joined by some miracle by Emhyr not too long after.

They stood together watching the twirling couples and the dizzying array of colors for a moment before speaking.

“You were very convincing in your discussion with Lord Voorhis.” Emhyr murmured quietly. Over the general din his voice only trailed far enough to reach Geralt’s ear. “You had him quite convinced by the end. I am sure that Cirilla will see his support in court next session.”

Geralt shrugged self consciously. “I’m pretty sure that was all Ciri. I hardly said anything.”

“True. But what you did say was inspiring. You and Ciri both come from a world unlike anything anyone in this room knows. You see things which no one else here can see. So when you speak, you speak with experience and with knowledge. Only a fool can miss that.”

“Hmm.” Geralt replied. He hated compliments, and Emhyr’s, with their rough sincerity, were almost always too much to bear.

Emhyr turned to face him and pinned him with his dark eyes. Geralt could feel that gaze like a caress, and wished more than ever that they were alone.

“What Ciri is seeking to do is revolutionary. It has never been attempted before. But should it succeed, she will give people something which no charity or almshouse could ever hope to provide. She will give them lasting change. A legacy which will endure.”

Geralt could tell by his tone of voice that there was something else which Emhyr wanted him to understand then what he was saying on the surface. But for the life of hime he could not understand.

He knew what Ciri hoped to accomplish with her project. A constructive and resilient solution to poverty that would also benefit the Empire as a whole in the long run. A legacy that would make her known not as a conqueror but as a provider. She would change the world.

But Geralt couldn’t understand how that had anything to do with him. He was a Witcher, and nothing more. Granted, he was currently the consort to the most powerful man on the Continent and was engaged in a little more than just simple monster hunting these days, but the fact still remained that he was and always would be a Witcher, and Witchers did not leave legacies.

Emhyr was obviously loosing patience with Geralt’s inability to understand and he produced another dramatic sigh. He was getting rather good at them of late.

“Geralt, I know that something has been bothering you for a while and I have a fairly good idea what. This is neither the time nor the place to have this talk though. Tonight. I may have something for you, please try to hear me out before ripping my clothes off.” And with that, Emhyr turned away and sauntered casually over to where the Duke var Ebbing was trying desperately not to look like he was trying to catch the Emperor’s attention.

What the hell?

“What the Hell?” Geralt repeated out loud, because it bore saying. He hated this cryptic bullshit.

And he was not so horny that he couldn’t wait to tear off Emhyr’s clothing the second they got into his bedroom.

Well, at least not every night.


	4. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr tries to help, Geralt reacts badly

By the time Geralt was able to leave the ball it was past midnight.

He had left not long after his conversation with Emhyr, but sadly the Emperor did not have the privilege of leaving his own party quite so soon, and so Geralt had a few hours more to wait before Emhyr could join him.

How that man managed to spend so long surrounded by bloodthirsty hyenas without getting stabby, Geralt had no idea.

Even after having scrubbed himself raw in a boiling bath and having changed into his own clothes, Geralt could still feel the weight of so many calculating eyes clinging to him like grease, and the phantom smell of perfume and greed still stung his nose.

He was much too restless to stay cooped up in the room.

So he grabbed his steel sword and went out into the courtyard below.

With the full moon and the light from multiple windows shining out, it was more than bright enough for Geralt to see, and he spent the next two hours waiting for Emhyr by running through every advanced sword form which he knew. Pushing himself until he reached that almost meditative place where the body moved itself and the mind went quiet.

He was so caught up in it that he only half registered Emhyr when he entered the courtyard.

Amongst the effusive bloom of the garden, Emhyr’s scent was familiar enough that Geralt recognized it even with his mind completely occupied with the weight of his blade cleaving through the air.

Geralt could count on his fingers the number of people who could approach him even in his sleep and not register as a threat and still have plenty of fingers left over. It was strange to think that the Emperor of Nilfgaard should be among them.

Emhyr waited in silence for Geralt to finish, and despite the fact that Geralt knew that it was too dark for human eyes to see clearly, the weight of that steady gaze was oddly thrilling and soothing at once.

Thrilling because he couldn’t help but show off a little in front of someone he found as attractive as Emhyr and soothing because there was no fear of judgement or disgust when his movements became faster than human.

When he finally came to stand in front of Emhyr, he made no effort to hide the glint in his eyes or the half feral twist of his lips. He could smell the sharp spike of lust it caused in Emhyr.

But before he could get closer, Emhyr held up a hand to stop him. “Geralt, we need to talk. Before…before you distract me, there is something which I wish to discuss with you.” Emhyr’s voice had that particular formal lilt it always got when he was being serious, or when he was unsure and trying to hide it.

Geralt sighed heavily and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. He knew Emhyr wasn’t going to let him get any rest (or sex) before he said his piece. “Hmm.” He grunted in response, and climbed back up the stairs into Emhyr’s rooms.

There was a basin of cool water that he used to wash the worst of the sweat off his face and neck, and he carefully wiped down his sword and returned it to its sheath before perching on the edge of the bed. He cocked his head to show that he was listening.

Emhyr only made a slight face when Geralt didn’t change into cleaner clothes before sitting on the bed, it was one of the many things that they bickered about in quieter moments, but apparently whatever Emhyr was planning on saying was important enough that he was willing to let it slide this once.

Instead of breaking into one of his patented lectures, Emhyr crossed the room and picked up a large, well worn book from his bedside table, which had been resting there unremarked because he always had books laying there.

Emhyr came over and placed the book into Geralt’s hands.

Geralt ran a hand over the cracked spine. At some point the leather had been red, but now it was a faded brown with only the faintest shadow to show that it had once had a title. He looked up at Emhyr, who was standing within touching distance but was carefully keeping his hands to himself.

Geralt asked, “Is this a comment that I need to be reading more? I know I’m not the model of a well educated-“

“No, not that! Take a look inside.” Emhyr interrupted. “This is the closet thing that the library has to a complete monster manual. Everything else is pure fiction, and even just from the little I’ve learned listening to you and Ciri I know that this one is sorely inaccurate, not to mention that it is at least half a century out of date.”

Surprised and somewhat confused, Geralt flipped through some of the pages. They were so old that several were in danger of coming apart in his hands, but he could still read the faded ink describing nekkers and ghouls and arch griffins in such archaic prose that put even some of the truly terrible texts he had read as a child to shame. He came across a chapter describing a draconic species which had been extinct for two centuries and native to a completely different biome as well.

Geralt snorted in dry amusement. “I see what you mean. If it’s accurate monster manuals you’re looking for, I could recommend a few. I know that the library at Oxenfurt still has some good ones.” There was a whole library dedicated to monsters and how to kill them at Kaer Morhen, but he wasn’t ready to go back there anytime soon. Not after loosing Vesemir.

“Actually, I was hoping we could produce an entirely new manual. Specifically, I was hoping you would write one.” Emhyr said plainly, as if this was the most logical thing in the world.

“You..what?!” Geralt spluttered. “Why?”

Emhyr sighed and turned to pace a few steps back and forth. His hand began to gesture as he talked, which told Geralt that this was indeed something which he had been thinking about for a while and for some reason felt was important. “I am well aware that there are plenty of accurate monster manuals out there, which I could have ordered brought to the palace at any time I desired. However, merely accurate is not what I have in mind. You are a Witcher without peer, no, don’t bother arguing, and I have known you to hunt beasts which would have felled entire regiments of well trained soldiers like so much wheat for harvesting. But I have also known you to spare creatures which others would not have hesitated to kill. You have found ways for them to live harmoniously with, rather than as a threat, to human lives.” Emhyr came to stop once more in front of Geralt. His eyes blazed down at him where he still sat on the bed. Still dressed in his full formal robes, Geralt felt practically naked in his thin cotton shirt and trousers.

Emhyr’s voice went low and gentle. “The world is changing, Geralt. You said so yourself, when you first came to the palace. A manual to kill monsters was all that was needed, before, but now perhaps there is use for something more. I want you to write a manual on monsters, but on how to save them as well as kill them. A guide for a new world, if you will.”

Geralt could only stare in stunned confusion. “But…why?”

“Why? Because this is your legacy. Along with Ciri and every single thankless peasant that owes you their lives and every king who owes you their crown or their grave and the countless other ways in which you have changed the world. Geralt, you-“

“What?”

“-listen to me! Tonight, when Ciri was describing her project, you looked so proud. And with every right, for you more than I have been the one to raise her and to teach her.” Geralt felt a pressure growing in his chest, and made a move as if to flee. In response, Emhyr sped up. “But I saw in your eyes a sadness as well. You spend your days restless and half aimless not because there is nothing for you to do, but because you have no mission. Blind, witless, and weaponless you would still be a Witcher, and Witchers are not meant for an idle life. I know this, and I know you. You want something more. A legacy that is more than just a life behind the throne of the powerful and mighty.”

“And this…book…would be my legacy?” Geralt wanted desperately to be anywhere but here, but Emhyr was still standing directly in front of him, blocking his path. And his words were buzzing around his head like drunken bees, confused and stumbling over every aching wound he tried so hard to ignore.

All of the love, and all of the attention, that Emhyr gave him, was like being handed everything he ever wanted with no clue on what to do with it.

“Among many. Civilization may be on the way towards eradicating all monsters, but at what cost? How many unnecessary deaths until the last dark corners of the earth have been conquered, and then only mankind remains? You have the knowledge to change the world, Geralt, if you only think about. All your knowledge in saving lives, not killing, stored in a book and then published and spread to every corner of the empire. Tonight, Ciri said she wished to give people the tools to help themselves. Why not give people the tools to defend themselves as well?”

Geralt took a deep steadying breath, and tried to think.

He thought on his century of experience on the Path. The countless towns and villages he had saved, only to ride through half a year later to find them dead by some other monster. He thought of every necrophages infestation or ghoul nest he had cleared out that could have been prevented with the proper burial practices, or the wraiths he had dispersed because of the petty cruelty of men.

And he thought of every kind creature driven out of their homes by the mindless bigotry of the misinformed.

But then he thought of his brothers.

Eskel and Lambert, who were still on the Path full time and who were such an essential part of himself that having them separated across the Continent was like having parts of his body scattered across the land.

He thought of all the years he had gone hungry from lack of work, because who needed a Witcher these days? When progress and science were making the civilized parts of the world safer than they ever had been before.

He thought of Kaer Morhen, and the centuries of knowledge that were still stored away in her crumbling halls. The generations of Witchers who had gathered every winter and carefully recorded everything that they knew, passing down an entire way of life from brother to brother, until all of that was destroyed in a blaze of violence and hatred.

After all, Witchers were just archaic remnants of a darker age, useless and monstrous in the face of progress.

His hands shook, where he still gripped the book. Suddenly the silky glide of the satin sheets under him and the gilded opulence of the wall hangings made him feel trapped and unnatural. This wasn’t what he had been made for.

He dropped the book unceremoniously on the floor and shoved past Emhyr as he stood up. “No!”

“No? Geralt, please-“

“No, I just…I need to think-“

“Darling….”

Geralt choked and came to a stop, his back to Emhyr’s outstretched hand. Emhyr did not use endearments lightly, and when he did they always sent a shiver of want down Geralt’s spine.

“I’m sorry. I just need to think.” Geralt murmured, and he met no resistance as he quickly gathered up his swords. He had his second favorite suit of armor in his old rooms, as well as saddle bags he kept stubbornly packed and ready to go at all times. And Roach would be sleeping in the stables.

He made it half way to the door before a sharp twist in his stomach made him turn back. Wordlessly, he pressed a fierce kiss to Emhyr’s lips, and hoped that he understood everything that he couldn’t put into words.

When he got down to the stable, fully armored and armed, Roach gave him a disgruntled snort and tossed her head when he saddled her up. But she rode out without complaint, and kept a steady pace until the palace and the city was lost to sight behind them.

Geralt rode through the last hours of darkness and on through the morning. And carefully, painfully, he didn’t think about the stricken look on Emhyr’s face when he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Emhyr use endearments? Well, he does now!
> 
> Geralt is just a little bit traumatized and a little unable to process emotions like a normal person, that's all:)


	5. The Mistakes We Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr reflects on what went wrong

Emhyr felt like like banging his head against his desk. Or drowning himself in his very deep bathtub.

He was such an idiot!

After Geralt had left, he had stood in stunned silence for several moments.

His lips still stung from Geralt’s last bruising kiss and all he could think was that he would give half of his empire and his right hand as well just to have that man walk back through the door.

But of course, there was no power on this earth that could make Geralt do something against his will.

Emhyr was at a loss.

Ciri cornered him at lunch the next day and fixed him with a long, silent glare that would have put a basilisk to shame.

Emhyr finally had to look away.

“What did you do this time?” Ciri asked caustically.

And Emhyr tried to explain that he had only been trying to help. That he had noticed something was bothering Geralt and had worked long and hard at it until he thought he had come to a solution.

Obviously it had been the wrong one.

Ciri listened to him explain the idea about the monster manual. About a book that would not only help arm people against the monstrous dangers of the world but would also ensure that some of those things which were not threats or only threats when pushed could find a way to survive. That creatures like the water spirit currently living in his garden didn’t have to extinct.

He told her about his idea of giving Geralt a legacy, a way to change the world that would last longer than until the next monster showed up.

Ciri only shook her head and told him he was an idiot.

A world where every peasant and two penny knight knew how to protect themselves from monsters was a world where Witchers were no longer needed.

Worse, it was a world where foolish people died, because just because you could train a troop of soldiers to hunt down nekkers and drowners didn’t mean they could take on bruxae or even a swarm of alghouls without a tremendous loss of life.

A book like that would put Witchers out of work, or worse yet, would reignite the barely banked fire of hatred against them once more, now when there were so few left and one good blow could wipe them all off the face of the earth.

Geralt was right to be upset. Such a book would never work anyways.

Emhyr wished, very fervently, that he was a lesser man and could allow himself to give into drink. In that moment, he wanted nothing so much as the hazy oblivion of alcohol to block out the last night.

But Emhyr was not a lesser man, and he had an empire to run, so his personal problems would have to wait.

Besides, he had learned his lesson well. That if Geralt wanted to be left alone, there was nothing that could be done to force him back before he was ready and to try would only drive him further away.

After two weeks, Ciri received a letter from Geralt, but refused to tell Emhyr what it said beyond informing him that Geralt was unharmed and well.

An issue arose in the courts when a minor lord was found embezzling tax funds and after Emhyr very publicly had him punished he was able to distract himself with the mountain of paper work that was required to sort out the years of misfiled and purposefully obstructed records for several days.

He threw himself into the reports describing a new variety of wheat which was being bred for the highlands and spent several long nights hammering out the details of distribution and taxation.

There were several social occasions throughout the following weeks, balls and sorries and parades which demanded the Emperor’s attention, and Emhyr felt his temper slipping with each snide comment and enquiry he received as to Geralt’s whereabouts.

As much as the court had been forced to accept the presence of a Nordling Witcher as the imperial consort, they would never miss an opportunity to make backhanded insults at his lack of court decorum and proper deferential behavior. Emhyr made something of a betting game with himself about it, waiting to see when one of the simpering fools would forget themselves and overstep enough that he could justify a public reprimand.

Ciri, for all that she had ben raised by Witchers and later forced to survive on her own in the cutthroat underbelly of the world, seemed to have a surprising amount of patience when it came to such insults.

Instead of reaching for her closet weapon, even in full formal wear she never went without at least a dagger, she would simply smile and nod and then politely eviscerate them with a cutting comment the first chance that she got. Or if it got particularly bad she might simply invite them to a training session, and then promptly precede to viciously take out five guards at a time while the noble in question was watching, wide eyed.

They never seemed as ready to insult her after that.

But despite all his efforts, Emhyr could never really get Geralt off his mind, nor did he entirely want to. He knew that he had messed up, and he knew that he needed to find a way to fix it.

At night when he was supposed to be sleeping, he would lay awake in the bed that felt far too large without the sprawling presence of a purring Witcher, and puzzle over that disastrous conversation over and over again.

He had been so sure that this was what Geralt wanted. A project that was perfectly suited to his skills as a Witcher, something which only he could offer the world, but in a way which had never been attempted before. A wholesale approach to defeating monsters. A challenge that would take away that confused, bruised look in Geralt’s eyes and replace it with the fire that should rightfully be there instead.

A way for Geralt to leave his mark, and become more than just the traveling pest control that the world saw him as.

Instead he had managed to insult him more gravely than any courtier, noble, or pitchfork wielding peasent ever had. He had asked Geralt to engineer his own end, and that end of his entire trade, by suggesting that he make the skills of a Witcher unnecessary.

He knew that there was nothing he could say to get Geralt to come back before his time, and any true apology should wait until they were face to face, but perhaps there were some words which he could send now, and hope that they helped to ease the tension, and the distance, between them.

That night, he wrote out a letter, and kept it as simple and straightforward as he knew how, because he knew that his Witcher appreciated honesty above all else, and would have no patience for the flowery language of court at a time like this.

The next day he pressed it into Ciri’s hands, and knew that she would find a way to have it delivered.

He didn’t expect a response, but he hoped that he might get a chance to see the golden eyes of his Witcher again soon, and that he would be given a chance to make right what he had so dreadfully made wrong.


	6. Alone With Your Thoughts Is A Painful Place To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is over a hundred years old, more than old enough for some self reflection, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy on introspection and flashbacks and Geralt maybe kinda working through his issues? He tries
> 
> Warnings for discussion of child abuse and (slight) alcoholism

Three weeks, five nests of drowners, two adolescent griffins, a bukavac and a mora infestation later and Geralt knows that Emhyr was just trying to help.

He also knows that considering his knowledge and experience on the topic of monster hunting, Emhyr had come to the most logical solution he could have when he set out to help Geralt.

Four weeks and several bottles of vodka later, a Witcher’s tolerance for alcohol is an expensive hurdle to getting drunk, and Geralt is maybe able to admit that he did actually need help.

He had been feeling rather…on edge…of late.

Restless in a way that was almost claustrophobic and didn’t get better when he went on a hunt.

Nervous in a way that had nothing to do with a physical threat and everything to do with fact that life had taken some truly, spectacularly unusual turns of late and he had no idea what the fuck to do with where it had left him.

He was supposed to be a simple Witcher, gods dammit!

He was supposed to be content with the Path and its contracts and its kills and its pitiful pouch of pennies at the end.

He was supposed to be like his brothers.

Instead he was traipsing around the imperial palace and in and out of the Emperors bed like he had any right to be there.

Five weeks and a very bad, very bloody fight with a bruxae later, Geralt is able to recognize that maybe he could have handled their last conversation a little bit better than just storming off in a huff.

He thinks he could have stayed and kissed Emhyr again and laid down in his too soft bed and explained what it was that he was feeling.

Maybe.

If he had a lot of luck and a lot of liquid courage and maybe a spell or two to help.

Dandelion, once, in a fit of academic fervor after having attended a seminar on psychology had once told Geralt that he was an impulsive, emotionally stunted, socially blunted fool because he had experienced trauma at a young age due to abuse.

Objectively, he knows what that word means, has had it explained to him before.

Had had Lambert tell him about a child bearing the bruises left by his father’s hand. Had had Dandelion tell him of his parents who never laid a hand on him but were overbearing and manipulative and could never love him for who he was. Had listened to Yennefer rage long and hard against her parents who had hated her and Aretuza which had saved her only to spit her out jaded and wounded and alone against a world of twisted back stabbing politics.

He still can’t figure out how that word applies to him.

There are many things about his childhood that he knows were painful and wrong.

The small bodies buried every year, and the horrors of the trials and the promise of death on the Path did not provide for a comforting childhood.

But the truth of the matter is that life like that was normal for Geralt, and for all of the bad there was also a lot of good.

Memories of brothers and laughter and mad dashes through the snow in nothing but their underwear and the wild ruckus that a keep full of drunken Witchers could cause, surface under the numbing affect of good alcohol.

The truth of the matter is that growing up in Kaer Morhen only became strange after he set out on the Path.

Geralt himself was brought to the keep as an infant, and so had no memory of what constitutes a “normal” human childhood.

He picked up bits and pieces from the five and six year olds who were bought in every year. He learned that most children have two parents, a mother and a father, and siblings of various ages.

Geralt had a keep full of grumpy, scarred old Witchers who ignored him half the time but sometimes told him stories at night and brought him furs to line his bed and passed him sweets when they thought no one else was looking.

He remembered vaguely, being scared and lonely when he first came to the keep, but then life as a knee high tripping hazard to Witchers became the only normal he really knew, and those memories faded.

He learned from the other children that most of them missed their parents, even those who were orphans before they came to the keep.

Geralt asked Vesemir about it one time, if he had parents as well. Or maybe even siblings. And what that meant to have parents somewhere out in the world when his family was right there in the keep.

Vesemir only sighed and shook his head and promised to tell him when he was older.

When he was older he started training and there was no time for questions about family.

After decades on the Path, Geralt thinks he knows what it means that he was abandoned by his mother. He learned to understand what it meant to be unwanted, when very other village cast him out and refused to meet his eyes. Little by little, he learned to hate his mother, who had only ever been a vague concept to him anyways, because she came to represent every hour of loneliness and suffering he endured on the Path, for pitiful coin and even less gratitude.

Touch is another thing which he learned was different.

Touch amongst Witchers of the same school is almost as thoughtless as breathing.

Between endless rounds of training, the mutagens, and the general closeness of a tightly knit, isolated community, young Witchers learn every aspect of each others body in intimate detail.

There were days when Geralt thinks he couldn’t tell where his body ended and his brothers’ began.

The sweat and blood and bile and tears that they all shed, the pain that they shared, the screams and the nightmares, meant that there was no shame amongst Witchers.

But there was also warmth and connection and the solid press of familiar bodies on cold winter nights as they all piled together in front of the fire.

The mutagens, amongst other things, cause a young boys hormones to go absolutely wild, and for a few years after the Trial of the Grasses, the Witchers in training snuck off with each other in every spare moment to discover what all those new urges were about.

There was no shame amongst Witchers, and this included pleasure as well.

On the Path, the only touch Geralt knew was the swipe of a monsters claws or the impersonal touch of a paid whore.

But at home his brothers piled in close and loose limbed and between friendly wrestling bouts and drunken puppy dog piles in front of the fire, Geralt found himself wondering what was so wrong about that, about himself, that he could never find that kind of touch on the Path.

Years down the road he met Dandelion and learned about a new, human, kind of companionship. And then he met Yen and he learned that he could find comfort and a gentle touch even on the Path. He finds Ciri and learns that family can exist beyond the shattered remnants of his School.

And then he meets Emhyr, and in between finding a daughter and loosing a daughter and somehow finding her again and breaking up with Yen he finds himself falling in love with Emhyr and he learns that human touch can become home as well, even though he is farther from Kaer Morhen then he ever has been before.

Emotions, of course, are completely overwhelming on the Path.

Encountering _human_ emotions on the Path for the first time was very confusing. There are just so many of them, and humans let them flow all over the place like water pouring out of a broken bowl.

To this day Geralt finds himself easily overwhelmed by the shear emoting power that mot humans possess.

Witchers are by nature gruff and by training distant.

As tactile as they are, they leave their hearts out of it.

The mutagens, even after centuries of careful study, can still make them unstable. And though an instance of a Wolf School Witcher going rapid hadn’t happened in generations, the old precautions remained in place during Geralt’s training.

Meditation for Witchers is a practice closer to magic than anything else. It helps them direct energy for healing in order to speed up their already impressive constitutions and also helps to fortify their minds against illusions, mental snares, and any other form of magical mind control.

It also helps to teach them emotional control.

Witcher hormones are powerful, and with their bodies designed to produce extra levels of testosterone, cortisol and other strength related hormones, they can also become rather impulsive and aggressive.

Meditation teaches young Witchers to separate out the useful impulses from the dangerous ones. What instincts will help save your life, and which ones will only distract you from your purpose.

Fear must be harnessed so that it becomes nothing but a way to assess a threat.

Pity must be stowed away because a Witcher cannot afford to refuse payment from starving peasants or to hesitate on a killing blow.

Empathy is only as useful as it can help you investigate a monster and negotiate for better pay.

Love is the camaraderie you feel for your brothers, and nothing more.

Self love is non existent. There is only logic telling you to eat when hungry, sleep when tired, and otherwise ensure that you remain in fighting shape, because you are of absolutely no use to anyone dead.

Meditation is a core practice that every Witcher must master.

None of that helps Geralt in the least when he tries to parcel out whatever it is between Emhyr and himself, or the confusing jumble of emotions that their last conversation caused in him.

Six weeks later and he receives a letter from Emhyr. It arrived in a puff of Ciri scented magic so Geralt knows immediately who it is from before he even sees the familiar, looping handwriting on the envelope.

He buys another several bottles of vodka and takes them and the unopened letter out into the woods.

A full bottle in and he still hasn’t opened the letter, but he sits and thinks about his childhood and everything that probably went wrong to end him up in the mess that he is in now.

There are, of course, countless things which Geralt learned the hard way to find different and strange about himself.

Year after year he set out on the Path and year after year he found the same cutting and bone biting hatred and fear.

At Kaer Morhen he was a brother, on the Path he is a barely tolerated monster.

At home he had a purpose, a mission. He was a Witcher recognized for his skill and talent and acknowledged for every life saved and monster slain.

On the Path he is lucky if he gets paid. He learned quickly that his purpose is just a job, thankless and dirty and only given to him out of desperation when every other recourse has failed.

Witchers are not heroes. They are not knights or gallant and righteous rescuers, they are professionals with a job. And like every job theirs has rules and practices and traditions.

What Emhyr offered him threw all of that out the window.

He looks at the letter in his hand and opens it.

The words are brief and to the point, written in Emhyr’s own assertive hand, but even so his eloquence and sincerity are plain to see.

_Geralt,_

_It pains me to think that I should have offended or wounded you in any way. I know that no apology expressed with simple ink and paper will do the trick, so I shall not waste your time with them now._

_I simply wish you know that when the time is right, I will be waiting and eager to see you again. Despite whatever pain I might have caused, you have a home with me and a place in my heart for as long as you will have it, and I only wish to remind you that when you are ready to here my apology, I shall be here._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Emhyr var Emreis_

Geralt read it once, and then had to read it again when his eyes went blurry after the first sentence.

The letter even smelled like Emhyr, like pine soap and parchment and black tea.

Like home.

Geralt stood up and threw the letter on the ground, watching angrily as it slowly floated down.

“Fuck you!” He shouted at the traitorous slip of paper. “Fuck you and your words…. and your….stupid feelings….and your fucking apology. Your non-apology! Fuck you!”

He turned away with a growl. Roach looked at him in reproach from where she had been woken from her sleep with his yelling.

“What?” He snapped at her, but she only turned away and went back to sleep with a swish of her tail.

Geralt groaned and sunk to the ground, his head in his hands. Of course he messed up bad enough that not even his horse would talk to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Mora is a slavic demon that sits on your chest at night and drinks blood. They can pass through a keyhole and are born from still born girls 
> 
> A bukavac is a southern slavic demon with a loud shriek who lives near swamps with six legs, slimy skin, and horns and likes to drown people


	7. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt runs into some friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seems like everyone wanted to show up for this chapter
> 
> roughly speaking the time line mentioned here is based on all three games, with a little creative license taken by me:)

After he had meditated his alcohol induced headache away, Geralt set off traveling again.

Though he didn’t consciously make the decision to go there, he found himself wondering through Toussaint, where he ran into Dandelion.

It had been a long time since he had seen his old friend, and for a few days he was content to spend the time drinking and reminiscing, thought it might have been fairer to say that he drank while Dandelion reminisced. The troubadour had been spending too much time in the company of nobility lately, and his tales had grown proportionately outlandish.

“-and then, I told the guard that if he didn’t let me through, I’d curse his whole family to bleat like goats for the rest of their lives. The man was so terrified that he let us through at once, and now I am sure to be given free access whenever I wish to visit the Golden Maiden!” Dandelion finished his latest tale with a flourish. “But tell me, Geralt, I know you’ve not hung up your swords quite yet, surely you have a tale or two.”

Geralt, who knew from experience that Dandelion was worse than a Terrier with a rat when it came to getting what he wanted, tried to think of a harmless tale or two he could tell. “Well, there was one, a villager up north wanted me to take care of a problem. Said he had imps terrorizing his house.” Geralt ginned at the memory. “Only thing is, imps aren’t a real thing. So I told him, he must have an imp-perfection in his notice, though I’d be happy to look into his problem.” Geralt looked expectedly at Dandelion. He had been particularly proud at the delivery on that joke.

Only, it seemed to have fallen flat, because Dandelion was looking at him with an expression of abject horror on his face.

“No! Geralt, tell me you didn’t. That-that’s awful. That is an insult to good puns everywhere. The poor man.”

“What are you talking about, Dandelion? That joke’s one of Lambert’s, and everyone knows he’s the funniest Witcher north of the Yaruga.” Geralt cried in offense.

“Geralt, I’m sure they teach you a great number of useful things at Kaer Morhen, but humor is obviously not one of them. Now, listen to a true master of the art! Have I ever told you of the time I convinced the venerable Lady Catherine de Burg that I was her long lost nephew?”

On the last night though, Dandelion broke out some truly vile tasting mahakam spirits, and started probing Geralt about why he was slumming it around Toussaint instead of back at the imperial palace with Ciri and Emhyr, and Geralt became frustrated enough that he left and rode away still reeling from the alcohol.

The next morning he felt bad though, and let his sense of guilt bully him towards Corvo Bianco.

He had not been there since he had first inherited the estate, as at the time he was feeling rather displeased with Beauclair in general.

But now he had the time and the inclination, so he made the effort to re-acquaint himself with B.B. and Marlene and the rest of the staff and spent a rather productive week helping with the wine harvest which he had just arrived in time for.

His Witcher senses and alchemy experience turned out to be surprisingly helpful when it came time to setting up the fermentation process, and Geralt was just beginning to feel useful again when B.B. decided that that would be a good time to push some of the neglected paper work on him. The second he saw the piles of tax forms and order receipts Geralt felt anxious all over again. Suddenly the thought of owning and being responsible not only for property, but the people who lived on it as well, became much too overwhelming.

So he left.

As the weather turned colder, he felt himself helplessly being drawn further north, as if his body felt instinctively drawn to winter in a certain place.

But Kaer Morhen was more of a wreck than it had ever been before, and empty besides. There was no going back.

Destiny, however, seemed less willing to let it go.

Geralt made it to the shores of Loc Mondurin at the base of the Amell Mountains before he almost literally runs into Eskel and Lambert.

The two have a camp along the southern shore, and Geralt is so caught up in his own thoughts that he practically stumbles straight into them.

As it is, he’s pretty sure that they notice him before he notices them.

Luckily, they get too caught up in greeting each other to tease him much about it.

Seeing his brothers again is like being given a breath of fresh air that he hadn’t even noticed he was starving for.

Geralt practically fell into the warm embrace that Eskel offered him, and spent a good minute with his head tucked under Eskel’s chin, re-familiarizing himself with his scent.

Lambert as always tried to play at being disinterested, but the second that Geralt pulled him into a hug, he relaxed with a last frustrated huff of air.

Thoughtlessly they fell into old habits, and soon found themselves sitting pressed shoulder to shoulder in front of a merrily crackling fire, exchanging their stories over the brace of rabbits which Geralt had caught earlier.

It turned out that Eskel and Lambert had met by accident in Sodden, and had both decided to travel south for the winter. At a loss of what else to do, they had decided to seek out Haern Caduch, the keep which had housed the School of the Bear. No one had heard anything from the Bears for decades, not since their last failed attempt to eradicate a nest of vampires caused the surrounding villagers to attack them several years before the sacking of Kaer Morhen, but Lambert and Eskel were curious to see if any of them were perhaps still alive and willing to offer them a place to stay the winter.

(Geralt had of course issued both of his brothers a standing invitation to winter with him the second he officially moved into the imperial palace, but he wasn’t surprised that they had yet to take him up on it. Most sensible Witchers reacted to royalty like oil to water.)

Despite the war being over, there was still plenty of work to be done, and both Eskel and Lambert reported a relatively successful year, though they also admitted that pay had been getting worse lately.

Geralt felt impossibly guilty, as he had been comfortably living out of the imperial purse himself, and had practically stopped taking coin for work all together.

To a chorus of matching groans of frustration, Eskel explained how he had spent a whole day unsuccessfully trying to explain to a village why it was a bad idea to bury their dead so close to the river. The fact that Eskel had been called there on a contract to eradicate the drowners that kept bothering them, drowners who were lured in by the corpses buried in the river’s mud, did not seem to register with them.

Lambert told an uproarious tale about a cockatrice who broke into a caravan transporting over twenty barrels of wine, and how it promptly became so drunk from consuming so much alcohol, that it ran itself off the side of a cliff.

Geralt recounted his story with the (none existent) imps, and was pleased to receive a proper reception to his joke.

Inevitably the discussion turned around to Emhyr.

Lambert opened up with a not so subtle comment on Geralt roughing it so far from his new cosy home this close to winter, and Eskel softened it a little by asking how Ciri was doing.

It wasn’t hard though to figure out what they were really getting at.

So Geralt told them everything.

It was easy, in a way it never was with anyone else. Not even Emhyr or Ciri, though they certainly tired, could get him to open up in the same way. But the comfort he felt with bis brothers was bone deep, and talking to them sometimes felt like talking to himself, only less lonely.

“Oh my gods, he wants you to write a fucking monster manual? He’s trying to get you to retire behind a dusty old desk more like it. Probably tired of you popping out on every random whim to chase beasties.” Lambert guffawed.

“I wouldn’t put it past Emhyr to have multiple goals in mind, but he was genuine in wanting to help.” Geralt defended.

“Relax Wolf, we’re not accusing your emperor of anything, it’s just understandably strange is all.” Eskel said in his gently placating voice. As he spoke he pressed against Geralt’s side in order to reach over and swipe half heartedly at Lambert, as was custom whenever he said something stupid or annoying.

“Ahh, I know. It caught me off guard too. Didn’t have a fucking clue what to do with it. Still don’t” Geralt didn’t hesitate to push back into Eskel’s warm weight.

“Which is why you ran away like the fucking dramatic bitch that you are.” Lambert threw his hands up in the air to demonstrate just how dramatic he thought that Geralt was.

“At least I’m not an asshole like you.” Geralt growled at Lambert, and the two them spent the next five minutes wrestling on the ground while Eskel watched in exasperation.

Once they were done, they ended sprawled out on the ground, with their limbs hopelessly entangled.

“So Emhyr thinks you need a legacy, eh? There are worse things.” Eskel said, and moved to sprawl across them with his head on Geralt’s stomach.

“It’s not…that’s not why I’d do this. I don’t need my fucking name in stone.” Geralt grumbled.

“Oh really? Could have fooled me.” Lambert said. “You know, if you didn’t want to be famous, you should have thought twice about meddling in all those royal affairs that you did.”

“I don’t meddle!”

“Sure you do. Let’s see…”

Eskel grinned, “We can start with your involvement in the coup at the isle of Thannedd and the death of King Foltest, -”

Lambert immediately picked up the thread, “Aiding the rebellion against King Henselt-“

“Of course, and the whole mess at Loc Muinne. -“

“And then we can’t forget Kind Radovid, killing that fucker should definitely be considered a highlight of your career.” Lambert spat on the ground for emphasis. “Though, on second thought, helping Cerys to the Skellige throne was a pretty smart move as well.”

“And let’s face it, you probably single handedly helped to pave the way for Nilfgaard’s success in the final war, Emhyr should be kissing your feet in gratitude.”

“To be fair, I think he already does that.” Lambert grinned lecherously.

Eskel made an exaggerated face of disgust, “Not a mental image I needed, Lambert!”

Geralt groaned and hid his face in his hands. “This is definitely not helping in the slightest. And none of that was meddling, I was involved against my will-“

“Yes, we know. The noble White Wolf was merely caught in the arms of destiny- he didn’t mean to play kingmaker. - ”

“Lambert, that’s enough.” Eskel interjected. “Look Geralt, all we’re saying is, you don’t exactly have a record of keeping it low profile. Remember, you used to want to be a knight?”

Geralt closed his eyes. “I’m just a Witcher.” He insisted, but his voice came out weak.

“And Emhyr’s just a man, didn’t stop him from conquering most of the North in one lifetime.” Lambert pointed out, and after that the conversation petered out. The sounds of the forest at night replaced their voices, and the three of them let their bodies relax further into each others.

Until, “I think you should do it.” Eskel said. Completely out of the blue.

“What?!” Geralt raised his head just enough to glare at Eskel.

“I think you should write the book. And probably help train some of the soldiers while you’re at it, now that I think of it.”

“Why?” Lambert spluttered, looking equally confused.

“Because why not? I mean, how many Witchers do you think are left? Besides us, there’s Letho, Serrit and Auckes for the Vipers, Gaeten for the Cats, maybe a few others. Coën for the Griffins, and who knows if there are any Bears left. At best, that’s what, eight? Eight Witchers left alive and still countless monsters. I don’t plan on giving up the Path anytime soon, but I don’t know,- it might be nice to think that all our work won’t go to waste, once the last of us inevitably croaks.” Eskel finishes with a long, drawn out sigh, and even Lambert takes his time formulating a comeback.

The weight of his words hang heavier then a ton of bricks on Geralt’s chest.

“Come with me.” He finally says, after he gets his voice back. “Come back with me to the palace. And I’ll do it. I’ll write that damn book. - But I won’t do it alone.”

Lambert squirrels out from underneath Geralt’s arm and starts pacing back and forth in front of their dying fire. “You can’t be serious!” He exclaims. “This could…do you want to put us out of business? Training up soldiers, teaching peasants, this is exactly the kind of shit that gets us labeled useless. That gets us killed!”

“Not necessarily.” Eskel replies. “Geralt was right. Times are changing. Civilization will prove us useless sooner or later. At least like this, we get to have a say in the matter. And who knows, maybe this will be what finally turns public opinion in favor of Witchers? Like Dandelion and his songs, we get to write our own story for once. Help people on a scale that will make a difference, one that will leave more than just bitter memories behind of a violent killer who past through their village once in a lifetime ago.”

“What happened to you being a simple Witcher, huh? What happened to sticking to drowners and ghouls?” Lambert demanded.

“I never said I was happy sticking to the small fry, just never saw the point in taking chances. Didn’t want to rock the boat when I knew I’d only end up drowning. Now though,….”

Geralt raised himself up on his arms and looked helplessly at the scarred face of his brother. “Eskel.” He said, quietly, and didn’t know what to say after that.

“Oh, don’t worry Wolf. I was never jealous of your fame and glory. You know that. Was never really my thing, I don’t perform well to crowds and all that. But…I don’t know, maybe it’d be nice, not to pass into total obscurity when I die.”

“Huh.” Lambert huffed, and roughly forced his way back into the pile. “You know, I always wondered what it’d be like to see my name printed on a book. But just so we’re clear, pretty boy, if we do this, I ain’t sucking your emperor’s cock for you.”

Geralt grabbed Lambert’s head and ground his knuckles into his hair, extra rough. “Don’t even fucking think about, runt.”


End file.
